Chapter 5
Five
All was in readiness. Victor’s cook had outdone herself.
The silver tea set glistened as it waited below stairs to be called for, the lemon tarts tasted divine, and the parlor sparkled—not a speck of dust in the room.
Even the weather cooperated by providing the lightest of drizzles to dampen Miss Godderidge’s spirits without ruining her dress.
The less hopeful of a forced marriage she was, the better.
He would let her and Godderidge down easily yet firmly.
There was no reason to wed Miss Godderidge, because of his behavior.
He had spent the majority of the forty or so hours since receiving Godderidge’s cryptic request replaying every conversation, every dance step, every touch he shared with Miss Godderidge and concluded that there had never been a single improper interaction.
Nor had there been a single flirtation on either of their parts.
There were one or two moments that could use explanation.
The grabbing of her elbow had been to preserve the painting nothing more.
Since that was the only moment he had touched her, there could be no other cause for her brother to demand they wed.
Giving her his handkerchief was a necessity, nothing more.
There was nothing to reprove him with. Unless she had created some lie—
Like the lie that circulated about his father’s death. Lies repeated in newspapers and even by those who claimed to know his father best.
No. Lying was inconsistent of what he knew of her character.
However, the late Lord Godderidge had a reputation as a man who protected his family’s interests, and all indications were the new lord followed in his father’s footsteps.
What better way to secure his sister’s future than to trap a wealthy man with more money than connections?
The formality of the written request alone spoke volumes. This was business. Family business.
Victor paced to the window, watching for the Godderidge carriage.
He stepped back the moment it came into view.
It would not do to be seen waiting for his guests.
He retreated to the far side of his study, disturbing his dog’s slumber.
Maximillion raised his head, his black eyes accusing.
The Mastiff possessed an easy indifferent attitude and was rarely riled unless he perceived danger, thus making him a good companion.
Victor gave his dog the order to stay. Miss Godderidge’s dress may suffer from a few raindrops, but Victor would not suffer it to experience Maximillion’s greeting.
At precisely two, his butler announced the guests.
The mirror revealed Victor had not damaged his cravat during the last half hour of nervous anticipation, which included trying unsuccessfully to loosen his collar.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
He had not gotten this far in English society by being cowed by members of the ton and their opinions of his untitled wealth. Today would be no exception.
He waited a moment more before entering the parlor, where Lord Godderidge and his sister stood near the window.
Miss Godderidge stood rigid, unhappy. Resigned, perhaps, to whatever arrangement her brother forced upon her.
The thought stirred something uncomfortable in his chest. She deserved better than to be bartered off to someone she clearly disdained, even if that someone was him.
He suspected she would welcome his refusal.
Miss Godderidge quickly hid her scowl as she turned to face him.
Her curtsy at his acknowledgment was polite and no more than he expected.
She sat in the chair he indicated. The one he resisted putting a tuppence under three of the feet to make it off balanced.
While he would have enjoyed watching her maintain her balance, he didn’t want it spread about that his furniture was less than it could be.
Or that the coins be discovered and he be labeled as worse than rude.
Lord Godderidge sat, his demeanor betraying none of the nervousness of a man who was forcing his sister to wed.
If it were a different situation, Victor would be tempted to compliment the man.
Instead, he noted the calculation in it.
This was a man accustomed to negotiation and getting what he wanted.
Of course, Lord Godderidge appeared calm.
He held all the cards. What defense did Victor have against a titled peer’s demands?
The timing itself seemed calculated, long enough since the incident for them to have “deliberated as a family” about what to do, but not so long that the matter appeared forgotten.
“Welcome to my home. Shall I ring for tea?”
“Please.” Miss Godderidge’s back remained straight. Yet she fidgeted ever so slightly as if he had put the coins under the clawed feet of the chair. This affair was entirely unfair to her, as the woman, she had fewer choices.
The footman entered with the tea tray, followed by a maid with a tray of sandwiches and his cook’s lemon tarts. A fine fare without being overly ostentatious with the poor farming year, a grand show of food would be in poor taste.
Lord Godderidge took his cup of tea. “No doubt you are wondering why I requested a meeting away from Leadon Hill.”
Here, it would be his moment to refuse. To Victor’s surprise, the next words came from Miss Godderidge.
“We are in need of your help for the planning and implementation of the harvest fair.” Her soft eyes begged for him to agree.
So sure had he been that Lord Godderidge’s request was to force a marriage, not once in the past two days had the fair crossed Victor’s mind. All thoughts flew from his brain, and he had no idea how to respond. So he did what any self-respecting Englishman would do, he sipped his tea.
Was he choking? Isabel leaned forward as her brother leapt from his chair to help Mr. Dalrymple. The poor man’s face turned a ghastly shade of vermilion. A shade she normally liked but was quite shocking when applied to the whole of a human face.
Mr. Dalrymple fanned himself. “Hot.”
David stood in front of their host, blocking her view.
Isabel tested her own tea to find it warmer than she liked.
Had the man not checked before upending his cup in such a manner?
It was not as if they had asked him to do something outlandish, such as give up claim to the ruins.
If he truly owned them. She had yet to ask David about Mr. Dalrymple’s claim on the land, but she had located a parcel map in the library, which gave possible credence to the claim.
Although the cartographer’s markings were not as clear as they could have been.
With multiple boundary lines, she found the map difficult to read.
Her brother stepped away, and she was relieved to see that Mr. Dalrymple’s face was a more human tone of red—more of an embarrassment than danger—perhaps a hint of carmine.
David took his seat. “As my sister was saying, we need help with this year’s fair.
During my lifetime, my mother and Lady Lightwood planned and hosted the fair, which was started by my grandmother before my birth.
When Lady Lightwood passed, her daughters took on all of their mother’s responsibilities.
However, with only Miss Jane in permanent residence at Kellmore, that assistance has greatly diminished.
As you know, my mother is still in mourning, and my wife does not feel up to taking on such a monumental task.
I have asked my sister to manage things, although I find that I cannot take on all of my father’s part with balancing my current duties. ”
“What kind of help do you need? Money? You know this will be a tight year as our harvests are all but ruined.”
Why did men always think of money first?
Isabel set her teacup on the table at her side.
“My mother has always kept costs to a minimum. We reuse buntings and decorations as well as tables and stalls. There are costs for food, of course, which will be higher this year. Many of the farmer’s wives bake for the prizes, however, with the cost of flour rising and our poor wheat harvest, we may need to find ways to supplement them so they are not depleting their family’s stores.
What we need is labor. As much as possible, the hosting families do the work of setting up, tearing down, and working the day ourselves to give staff and tenants as much of a true day off as possible.
Jane and I are not enough to handle all the planning and coordination. ”
“I noticed many of your staff helping in the past. Like your huntsman during the archery contest.” All traces of red had faded from Mr. Dalrymple’s face though his speech was slightly muffled, as if he burned his tongue.
David chuckled. “Our huntsman does not trust anyone with the care of his implements, especially the bows.”
“Just as our cook does not trust me to bake the cakes and puddings. Though I help by peeling bushels of apples the week of the fair as she bakes. Still, on the day of the fair and with the cleaning afterwards, we try to save them as much work as possible.” The balance was a delicate one.
Household meals were kept simple for the week leading up to the fair to lighten the normal work in the kitchen, where skilled hands were needed.
“What my sister says is true. At the very least, we attempt to create less work for those in our employ.” David picked up one of the small sandwiches.
“However, the point is, we do not need your money, we need your time. There is much to plan and prepare. If there is any harvest, we cannot take any of our tenants’ time from their work in the fields to help set up or build anything that may be needed. ”
“If you have been hosting this fair for three decades, isn’t everything already planned?” asked Mr. Dalrymple.
Isabel held back a huff. Couldn’t he see the need?
“We follow previous years’ fairs of course, to make it a tradition, but only as a guide.
Last year we had a decent harvest, and many of the farmer’s wives contributed to the contests and the refreshments at the ball.
This year, there can be no guarantees. It would also be in poor taste for us to provide fine cakes and puddings from ingredients that are in short supply or cost more than many people can afford.
That is where the planning needs to come in.
Not to mention, with the dismal weather this year, we must plan for both fair and foul weather.
Although, I cannot remember it ever raining on the fair for more than a few minutes. ”
“Why don’t you cancel it this year?” Mr. Dalrymple shifted in his seat to more fully face her. “I am sure everyone will understand.”
Isabel straightened, had she not explained this to him the other day?
“Would they? Every year there are no fewer than three engagements that come from the day alone. The competition between the larger landowners and gentleman farmers fosters camaraderie. We have had lean years before, not as bad as this, of course, but it does not mean there has been less work. We are not merely celebrating a harvest, we are thanking everyone for their contributions to our village and community. After all, we may own the land, but we do not work it. We would be nothing without the tenant farmers and other laborers.”
Mr. Dalrymple looked taken aback. “Is it that important?”
“Yes,” David and Isabel answered at the same time.
“I did not know. I knew everyone looked forward to it. My steward insists everyone have the day off. Which I granted naturally. I had no intention of upsetting things when I purchased Pittsfield.”
“How could you not know? Your cook won first prize for her tarts last year. That is no simple task, as Kellmore’s cook is so rarely outdone.” Of course, things had been topsy-turvy at Kellmore last year with Phil’s new son and George’s elopement and preparations to leave for America.
“I am not fond of tarts. I’m afraid I did not notice.”
The pompous, arrogant man. He deserved a burnt tongue.
If they did not need his help, Isabel would leave this instant and give up all hopes of seeing his collection of paintings.
David must have known what she was thinking as he shot her a look like father did when they were younger and about to act up. She smiled politely and didn’t speak.
“Can we count on your help then?” asked David.
The look on Mr. Dalrymple’s face was hard to discern. Isabel was sure he would decline.
“I will do what I can.”
“Good.” David accepted what little agreement there was. “Isabel, did you have a time you agreed upon for planning?”
“We are meeting on Monday at half-past two at Kellmore for our first planning meeting. You know the Lightwood’s residence?”
This time the man’s face was easier to read. Abject fear. It was easy to guess why, given Sir Lightwood trying to force his daughters on Mr. Dalrymple. Isabel only knew Phil and Jane’s parts. No doubt there had been more. “Sir Lightwood is in Town. He will not be there.”
“How many people will be there?” asked Mr. Dalrymple.
“Likely only Jane, her youngest sister Rose and us. Alex, I mean Miss Lightwood, is not expected to visit until mid-September.”
Mr. Dalrymple nodded, his face a mask again. “I will be there.”
David nodded his thanks. “Then we shall leave you. Thank you for allowing us to call on you.”
“My pleasure.” There was enough grace in Mr. Dalrymple’s voice that if she did not know the afternoon had brought the man discomfort, Isabel would not have guessed.
Isabel stood and glanced at the walls again.
The disappointment she felt on first entering the parlor and not seeing the Mary Moser returned.
The J.M.W. Turner was a fine specimen, as were the other paintings, but none of them were what she hoped to see.
It was unlikely that she would be invited into the parlor again.
A bachelor could hardly host any of the meetings necessary for the fair, only inviting two unmarried women, even with maids to act as chaperones.
She had to beg Jane to host the planning meetings as it was.
If only Mamma would consent, but there was something between Susanna and her mother she did not understand.
She looked Mr. Dalrymple in the eye as she took her leave. He gave the barest of forced smiles.
Outside, David helped her into the carriage. “That went well.”
Not how she would describe the afternoon. She felt as if she had just won a bet but was going to have to take care of a most fractious prisoner. It was not the auspicious start her brother believed.